


Direct Correspondence

by marina



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Humor, M/M, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/marina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad's never been used as a piece of stationary before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Direct Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Roga for the wonderful beta; all remaining mistakes are my own.

It's been three months since the last time Brad saw Nate. Three months on assignment in South East Asia, training and guarding and doing fuck all, trying not to let the boredom get to him.

He goes straight to DC, to Nate's new place. He'll go home later, see his family, eat at his favorite restaurant. Right now It's been three months of jerk off fantasies and useless patrols and Ray never shutting the fuck up and he is just so, _so_ done waiting.

Nate opens the door, standing there with his hippy haircut and a soft, worn t-shirt and before he knows it Brad's giant bag is on the floor, fucking up Nate's precious décor with his shit, he doesn't care, and his arms are wrapped around Nate's back and everything smells like home and comfort, even though it's the first time he's ever been in this apartment.

It's only when Brad breaks the kiss and heads for what has to be the bedroom that Nate finally makes a sound. "Aren't you-- don't you wanna eat or--"

Brad ignores him and keeps walking.

When Nate's on top of him, on the bed, he kisses Brad exactly the way Brad's been imagining being kissed for weeks. Brad's hands pull up Nate's shirt, slide along Nate's stomach and chest; he feels softer than Brad remembers. Civilian life agrees with Nate Fick; everyone in the Corps knows that.

He undoes Nate's belt – motherfucker seriously wore a _belt_ on the day Brad was coming home? – and Nate mumbles, "Missed you," and "Fuck, Brad," and his breath catches when Brad's hand slides inside his boxers and goddammit Brad has to be careful, has to pace himself, otherwise he might come from the way Nate looks and sounds and feels before they actually get around to doing anything.

"Want you to fuck me," Brad says, and Nate moans into Brad's neck – which really doesn't help matters on Brad's end – and his hands grab Brad's wrist and drag it out of Nate's boxers.

"Not gonna happen if you keep that up," Nate says, a little breathless.

Brad's not sure if it's a testament to how good the sex is or to how truly awful Nate's Recon instincts have become that it's not until after the shower, when they're both lying naked and sated on Nate's bed, that Nate goes from absently rubbing Brad's back to laughing so hard he nearly falls off the bed.

"What?" Brad asks.

"Do I look like I need an instruction manual or something?" Nate tries to pull off looking offended but the giant grin on his face gets in the way.

"_What?_"

"Don't tell me you didn't see this." Nate presses his thumb to a spot between Brad's left hip and lower back.

For a moment, Brad thinks Nate is tracing his tattoo, but then he notices a scribble made with a black marker, for the first time. He struggles to twist himself so he can make out the words.

"'_Insert cock here_'," Nate recites. "And there's an arrow, too. How thoughtful."

Brad lets his head crash into the pillow. "I'm going to kill that motherfucker."

"I'm sure Ray was just trying to be helpful."

Brad rolls his eyes before the words are even out of Nate's smug, entirely-too-amused mouth.

*

He spends four days at Camp Pendleton, waiting to ship out for his next assignment, and of course it's July so it takes less than five seconds for a spontaneous football game to materialize. Brad takes his shirt off after the second time he has to go long or lose the ball.

It isn't until they're done that Ray finds him in the barracks – they're not shipping out together this time around, but they're sharing quarters in the meantime. Brad bends over to reach for his bag and hears Ray go, "Is that," and then Ray's fingers are tugging at the waistline of his shorts.

"Motherfucker!" Brad says, turning around rapidly.

Ray's laughing, but it's his normal, human laugh that only comes out when they're not on assignment. "Dude, tell me your latest girlfriend did not write me a message on your ass."

Brad mentally runs through the last day he spent with Nate, remembering the last nap he took, getting up and getting dressed, Nate's hands all over him, tracing the ink on Brad's back. Ray catches him doing it and laughs even harder.

"_Dude_, your girlfriend – which you haven't even told me about yet by the way, what gives? – is using your _ass_ for _stationary_."

Brad pulls his shorts down to look at his ass, struggling to read the words, "'_Hands off, Ray_'," as Ray runs out of the room yelling, "Poke, Poke, you gotta see this!"

Brad heads straight for the shower. He makes a mental note to ask Nate what the fuck he thinks he's doing as he lathers his hands with soap. Brad touches the writing with soapy fingers, tracing over Nate's neat handwriting, imagining Nate's face as he applied the sharpie to Brad's skin, careful not to wake him. He'd insisted to kiss that spot before he let Brad put his pants on, that last day.

Brad starts rubbing off the black ink, water pouring over him, smiling at the memory despite himself.


End file.
